Luxury
by Nikoru-chan
Summary: Oliver may think. Oliver may do. Oliver never, ever takes things for granted. Not anymore.


NOTE ONE: I watch comparatively little television at the best of times, so it is perhaps unsurprising that I've only just discovered 'Arrow'. This ficlet was written after viewing the first two episodes and inspired by the dialogue in that first 'family dinner' scene.

Disclaimer: Naturally enough, I own not one single thing about Arrow. (But I borrowed it for this fic.)

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LUXURY

The Queen mansion reeks of old, established money; a country villa that would not look out of place in the rolling green hills of Merrie Olde England, for all that it squats heavily on a vast acreage in a monied area just outside of Star City. It is an venerable and imposing home, dating from a time when buildings were made of stone and timber and meticulous labour and money. Lots of money.

There are many such buildings dotted across the face of Northern America; salutes to a colonial past, triumphant shouts to an independent, wealthy present. Most are made up in a style rich with European heritage though still detailed with quintessentially American flourishes. Not all of them are well maintained, and even fewer of those are as modern, as luxuriously comfortable, on the inside as they are externally imposing.

The Queen family home, however, is such a one. For all its many bedroom suites (and equally numerous bathrooms), it has modern electricity, wireless internet connectivity, and - of course - plumbing.

(The plumbing, Oliver thinks, is perhaps the most important part - for all that it was something he'd never thought twice about, had taken utterly for granted before. . . before a disastrous tryst on an equally luxurious boat, before a catastrophic storm, before five years in a torturous hell of body, of mind and soul, before . . .)

Before.

At any rate, there are multiple water heaters supplying the house. Oliver has no idea how many, exactly, there are (and he thinks, _I should check that._ And he thinks, _I should know the layout of this house perfectly._ And he thinks, _I should know all the escape routes, all the gas pipes that heat the water, in case I ever have to blow the place sky-high. _And he thinks, _soon. Subtly, but soon. I'll find out. To be safe. To be prepared.)_ Regardless, there are sufficient units to ensure that - irrespective of wether the house holds only the family and servants, or plays host to several dozen guests as well - nobody ever runs out of hot water.

Oliver's giving it a good try, though.

The water cascading over his shoulders and back is hot, just shy of _too_ hot; enough to burnish his skin a ruddy crimson without blistering it. The shower itself is enormous, with easily enough room for two people, or three . . . enough space for a full leg sweep or jump-kick, should Oliver need to defend himself (and he thinks, _that's important. _And he thinks, _there's room to move, room to fight. _And he thinks,_ there's time to hear anyone coming. _And he thinks, _I'm as safe as I'll ever be.)_

And it's warm. _He's_ warm.

Thea had asked, hesitantly and with exquisite care, what the island was like. She'd been diffident, almost bashful; a far cry from the adoring - and adorable - little sister he'd left behind five years ago. She'd watched him over her plate tentatively, as if terrified that her question might cause him to flee, to vanish right before her eyes, to leave her and their family once again gapingly incomplete.

And Oliver? Smooth, loquacious Oliver couldn't find the words to answer her question in any way she'd understand. . . and he wasn't even sure he wanted to try. How to explain pain? Anguish? To explain desperation and the utter loss of hope, coupled with a steely-minded _purpose_ that overrode all else, including the desire to just give up and _die. _(And he thinks, _I don't want Thea to understand that. _And he thinks, _I don't ever want her to know what that might feel like._ And he thinks, _I'll never, ever, not protect her from that._)

"Cold," he tells her in answer to her question, and he means it. And it's right and honest, but at the same time it isn't: It's misdirection. A truth that was no answer, is no answer, will _never be_ an answer. (He pretends not to notice how keenly everyone else at that table watches him for his reply.)

But it's later now, and just at the moment? well, he's _warm_. There's two apples, filched off the dinner table and tucked onto his desk in the other room (And he no longer has to even think, _always_ _make sure there's food._ And he no longer has to even think, _stash supplies all over; if one cache's lost, another will suffice. _The Island taught him that. Drummed it into him. And he'll never again need to think before he does it.)

He's warm though, and he isn't hungry. Isn't wounded, isn't dirty, isn't terrified for his life.

He's warm, and he allows a moment to revel in it.

It's a luxury.

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NOTE TWO: I absolutely treasure feedback, and am very keen to hear what you think of my writing and story-telling (especially as this writing style is an experiment).


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